


Stigma

by ProtoKoda



Category: The Craft (1996)
Genre: F/M, Implied D/s, Licking, Other, Scarplay, reluctance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-01
Updated: 2013-12-01
Packaged: 2018-01-03 02:42:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1064782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProtoKoda/pseuds/ProtoKoda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bonnie's always been so shy about her scars.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stigma

**Author's Note:**

> I have to admit, re-watching The Craft I was inspired by Bonnie's burn scars. The relationship is pretty much whatever you make of it, however you read it. Enjoy.

She's always been so nervous about her back. 

You've seen it a few times before, but she still doesn't want to show you. 

The twisted matrix of pink, jagged scars that runs down her spine might be ugly to her, but it's beautiful to you. You've never seen anything like it. 

A trailing mesh of lines, not unlike thickened veins, raised, ropy to the touch. Sensitive, too. She can't stand it to be touched for very long.

It's a shame you have other plans.

You start slowly, just your fingertips, tracing the outer edges of her shoulder blades, skimming the back of her bare neck. You stroke her, pet her gently, until you can sense her relaxing, and you lean in close, close enough for her to feel your breath on her skin. 

Every muscle instantly tenses up again, her spine painfully straight, shoulders beginning to bunch. 

Your fingers hook around the bones of her hips and draw her back to you. 

“Easy.”

Her breathing becomes ragged and her head drops forward.

“Don't fight me, sweetheart.” 

A whimper forces itself from her throat, and she softens again. 

You lean in further and kiss the dead centre of her spine, softly, and she freezes, the breath catching in her throat. A few more kisses along her marred vertebrae and a sound erupts from her, so unexpected and vulnerable and meek that you almost can't comprehend it. But she doesn't tell you to stop. 

You can sense that she's trying to make a decision. She mutters something faintly, so very softly that you have to stand closer and pull her back to your chest, nerves fevered by contact with her skin, until you can hear.

“More... please. More.”

You oblige her instantly, head bowed against the marks on her shoulders, trailing your fingers, lips, tongue along her, slowly moving down, seeking the soft downy curve of her lower back, nipping gently, fluttering against her until she practically sobs and crumples in your arms, and you scoop her up and gently push her on the bed.

Face down.

You rub against her skin, stubble rendering her flesh pink, caressing her, loving her with your mouth and lips.

She writhes between you and the mattress, begging, whimpering, moving as though her skin is too tight for her body. Your hands are pushing into the backs of her hips and then they're smoothing the backs of her legs, tracing where the curve of her backside swells and fits so well in your palms. 

The insides of her thighs are slick as your continue. 

She's bending, moulding for you now, stretching and curling in on herself, and you can hear whines suppressed in every breath she takes. Her wrists flex as she clutches the sheets and pants, her chest heaving. 

You draw back for a second, and you make her wait. Long moments pass, and you watch the chill from the room pass over rising goosebumps. She's shaking a little. Her breathing hitches; she's anticipating you.

Then you run your tongue up the length of her spine. 

She wails and sobs as she practically comes undone before you.

You've never heard anything so perfect.


End file.
